Wile E Coyote, Rocket Pops and Beer
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU John Munch reflects upon his relationships, especially his current one. If you've seen the Homicide episode in which John dips his Rocket Pop into his beer, you'll love this one! It's a bit of fluffy insight into Munch's life and loves.


Wile E. Coyote, Rocket Pops & Beer  
by Cardinal Robbins

Disclaimer: John Munch isn't mine, but we'd get along well. Sarah Zelman  
is mine, but she really belongs to John. 

Four ex-wives and you'd think I'd hang it up for keeps, but you play to win. I could never get Fin to understand that, no matter how many times we'd end the night in the local cop bar, commiserating on woes of women past. Secretly, I had given up; to admit it to yourself is a failure of sorts, the surety you're either unwilling to look for love, unable to sustain it or worse, incapable of conveying it. Divorces will do that to you, convince you you're emotional detritus doomed to dwell in the lockdown of being unloved.

It was like that until the Trade Center was attacked and The Big Guy, in His own cosmic wisdom, shoved Sarah Zelman straight into my then-miserable life. Long story short, we went from zero to sixty like we'd known each other for a few dozen lifetimes. Hell, maybe we did. I'm not much for reincarnation, like she is, but it would explain a lot. It couldn't be that my Mom was right, I should have found a 'nice Jewish girl' at the start. Had to be something more, even though the formulaic contrivance of marrying within one's religion and culture has worked well for my younger brother, Bernie.

Just being Jews ('Just'? There's always more to it than that, when you're Jewish) doesn't explain how two people, burned, scraped and shattered by lovers of long ago, could open their hearts to each other unconditionally. Personally, I think it's all about the quirks. Those awful, awkward, stupid things that make or break a relationship, once the gloves are off and you realize you can only make love so many times in twenty-four hours. After the sweet taste of chocolate dipped strawberries and real Champagne, then comes the true test – Rocket Pops and beer.

Easy to remind myself of that now, as Sarah lies sleeping our bed. 'Our' bed, even though technically this is 'her' place, a couple blocks from 'mine.' Didn't think I'd ever think of anything as 'ours' again, after most of my things were gradually dematerialized in divorces over the years. Yet, here I am watching a widescreen TV that is indeed 'ours,' and she even suggested it reside at my place, not hers. One of her numerous quirks; an innate unselfishness so hard for me to accept, I expected it was an elaborate cover for a passive-aggressiveness which ultimately didn't exist.

She wandered into the kitchen this morning, sniffling, tiredly shuffling toward the coffee maker. I could tell by last night's snoring there was pollen in the air, so I sat her down at the dining room table and plied her instead with hot herbal tea. The way she swallowed tipped me her throat was taking a beating, which meant frozen waffles. No, not from the toaster. Straight onto a plate, along with a Benadryl and two Tylenols dropped into her palm. The quirk of ice-cold waffles to ease a sore throat until the pills could kick in.

She'd told me her ex-boyfriend hated that. Drove him crazy to see her grab an Eggo straight from the box, like some round, blueberry popsicle. Let alone the ex-husband, who thought she'd survive just fine by eating nothing at all. I can spare a thought for Dan Stranahan, since he's basically a decent guy and we're good friends now; their quirks didn't mesh in the long-run, they both accepted it and didn't let it ruin a great friendship. The ex-husband? I'd smoke him without so much as a repentant twitch in my trigger finger. Her worst mistake, but at least she learned the first time; she wasn't a repeat offender like yours truly.

When I'd reached into the freezer to give her some instant relief, I saw them: Rocket Pops. Certainly she hadn't seen the tiny smile, when I realized she'd bought them for me. Sarah hated Rocket Pops. I made this disturbing character flaw of hers when, working a case in the ninety-three degree hell of a Manhattan summer, we flagged down a Mister Frostee truck for something cold. She had the audacity to openly laugh at my choice of frozen confection, while she unknowingly drove me crazy, working her magic on an orange sherbet Push-Up as I struggled not to think impure thoughts.

You know, sometimes it is a whole lot easier to work with Fin.

Once she sleepily wandered back into the bedroom, I started surfing channels. No weekend housework to waste our precious time off, because we were both extremely OCD, luckily in all the same ways.

We kept our places spotless, some would say almost sterile, but both of us hated germs and grime after dealing with death and depravity virtually on a daily basis. No 'trophy wife' posturing to clutter our living quarters, either. I was thankfully spared lingerie hanging from the shower curtain rod, nail polish pedicure pads littering the living room, and dishes in the sink. In turn, she'd never need to worry about the seat being left up, hair in the bathroom sink, or socks and beer bottles strewn throughout the apartment.

She was the antithesis of my exes; utilitarian, requiring no curlers, mystic potions or electrical appliances to crowd the bathroom in the name of artificial beauty. At her place, there was always room for my overnight kit, which had quickly expanded into a shelf in the medicine cabinet at her urging. No hogging of hot water during a shower, no arguments over who grabbed the shampoo first. We didn't even argue over brands, like she and Stranahan had. What self-respecting man needs five different kinds of shampoo? Never mind. Maybe it's best I don't know. She's right, their quirks didn't mesh so well.

Sarah even pretended not to notice when I'd use an emery board. My wives had each thought it vain, even pretentious, but she recognized it for what it was. I kept my nails neat and clean, trimmed, smooth so they wouldn't snag open my latex gloves as I examined a corpse. The sticky feel of someone else's dried blood against your skin, especially under your nails, is disgusting. I went to great lengths to prevent feeling it ever again. Stanley Bolander, my first partner when I worked Baltimore homicide, had told me about the emery board trick. He'd learned it from his wife.

Cops had their own quirks; it was such a relief not to have to explain anything. Because Zelman already knew.

Never had to worry about being lectured on how hard it is to get gun oil out of the cushions, either. Okay, so she has a leather sofa. She usually had an oilcloth spread over the coffee table or the table in the dining room, cleaning and oiling her Glock with more ease than some women put on makeup. We'd turn on the TV and sit on the couch together, running a cleaning snake through our firearms and sharing the oil, like some couples shared popcorn at a movie. What a relief not to hear, "If you're cleaning your gun, I'm leaving," followed by the slamming of the front door, because someone feared and didn't understand such an integral part of my job. Cops. Love 'em or leave 'em.

Now here's something… Basketball. College hoops. The action looked even better on the bigger screen. Asleep or awake, Sarah didn't care when I yelled at the coaches, screamed an obscenity at a ref, or shouted at the top of my lungs over a last-minute nothing-but-net shot that beat the clock. Instead of chastising me about the noise and the neighbors, she'd usually come out and watch. Not the polite feigned interest of most women, my exes among them, but with the intensity of someone who studied the mechanics of each play and knew the game. The first woman I've ever known who yelled, "Woot!" or dared root against my favorite teams in favor of her own. Feisty, fearless Sarah. Damn. I tuned in too late, it's over.

Time for more surfing… Now we're talking. Looney Tunes. When you share practically the same childhood cartoons, you've got a lot in common already. Wile E. Coyote. ACME. Bombs, birdseed and falling off cliffs – now that's quality television on a grand scale.

I wouldn't lecture her for needing extra sleep or guilt her into feeling she had to keep me entertained. We didn't run games like that on each other. No need, since we were pretty solitary cats on our own terms, but better when together.

As the Roadrunner zoomed behind Wile E. and startled him straight into the path of an oncoming train, in the middle of nowhere of course, I realized something was missing. Quick trip to the freezer, then into the fridge for a beer. She bought yogurt again? When? I never got an evil glare for eating yogurt when we were together, nor a chastisement that 'real men' didn't eat yogurt. In fact, we both did. Frequently.

I snagged a beer glass and poured in a Sam Adams, leaving plenty of room. Back to the sofa in time for Wile E.'s rocket boots to launch him off a cliff, puffing out a few inches shy of the other side. Every time I saw it, I'd laugh, whether it was once or a hundred. I stretched out my long legs on the sofa, happy I'd never hear, "John! Get your feet off the couch!"

Sleeping Beauty shuffled out of the bedroom, looking like a disheveled Muppet in her heavy chenille robe, slippers and flannel pajamas. Without a word, I raised my legs and she slipped beneath, patting her lap to let me rest my legs on her. She gave me her 'Chicago look' as she arched her brows, followed by her California smile. "Go ahead," she said, trying not to laugh. "You know you want to." Part dare, part unconditional acceptance, I knew. We laughed.

I dunked the Rocket Pop into my beer and she giggled. Unlike Gwen, there was no exclamation of disgust; unlike Maria, my popsicles wouldn't mysteriously disappear; Sarah wouldn't sit there and stare at me, like Nancy, until I wanted to snap; nor would she huff in simmering anger, then march off and run up my credit cards like Billie Lou.

Instead, she rubbed my legs, and pretended to watch cartoons as she kept me in her peripheral vision. I could tell, because she wasn't afraid to grin like an idiot while I happily slurped. She'd never be an ex-wife because she wouldn't marry me. That was her biggest quirk and I accepted it.

Wile E. Coyote, Rocket Pops and beer. Oh, and Sarah Zelman, too. The finest things in life.

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End file.
